Is there a point where a problem that's been gnawing away at you for weeks (or months) gets so overwhelming that it stops being a problem? Maybe you've invested so much fret and worry over such a long time that you just don't have anything left to give it. This might be what they mean by "beyond caring." That seems to be where I am these days. Beyond caring.
Every day the weeds in my yard get higher and drier. Every day I notice them less. The only time I think about it is when I'm sneezing, or when I hear a weed trimmer working in another yard nearby. Since the only other yard close enough for me to hear what's going on is my landlord's yard, this gives me some concern. But not enough to say that I "care." Not any more.
The massive typing job involved in getting official documents ready for the launch of the Kennel has reached critical mass for me as well. I feel like Mickey as the Sorcerer's Apprentice. The more I mop, the swampier it gets. I'm at the point where treading water is more effort than it's worth, and I wonder how restful it might feel just to let go and sink below the surface.
Every time ten or fifteen new pages come through the fax (or by overnight mail, a new tactic they're using on me), I get a little less interested in getting them all typed. That's probably because every new set of pages puts me further away from the goal of being finished. It feels as if I now have more typing to do than can be done before my fingers fall off.
Of course, the fact that I was still typing tonight at 8:00 pm colors my judgment a little on this matter. It also puts a bit of the lie to the idea that I'll never get done, or that I'm totally overwhelmed. If that were true, I wouldn't keep trying. I think I'm more overwhelmed in my mind than I am on paper.
Still, I honestly don't care as much as I did when the first pages appeared. Then it seemed like a big adventure. Now it's more like a slog through an endless, bottomless bog. I'm all, like, whatever.